With a Side of Helicopter Parenting
by Kinsey Adelaide
Summary: Non-Superhero AU in which Dick is the son of Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. It's a comedy (with some detective work thrown in), in which Dick tries to deal with being 25 and having overprotective but well-meaning parents. Various other heroes will pop up as friends, clients, etc. Some swearing.


**Usual disclaimers: I don't own; property of DC Comics, etc.**

**So this is a non-superhero AU in which Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are Dick's dads. And I mix and match various versions of other DC characters. This is most definitely a comedy, with Dick having a strong internal monologue, with a bit of detective work thrown in. ****_Italics _****generally indicate stuff that happened in the past (Dick's memories).**

My name is Richard Bruce Clark Wayne, and today (March 20th) is my 25th birthday.

And so I figure, being the reflexive thinker that I am, that today is as good a day as any to take stock of my life, which is, by most accounts, pretty bitchin'.

And yet, there's a but because there's _always_ a but (don't you read advice columns?). Despite the general diggity dankness of my life, something's missing. Two somethings really: a sense of accomplishment and a significant other.

The latter is easier to explain. I'm like a male Bridget Jones (inner monologue-ing my diary) who's looking for love. After all, my dads met when they were both 25, were committed by 26, and had me at age 28. I want that to happen to me, although I'm terrified at the thought of being a parent in a scant 3 years (and rightly so, I would argue. Parenting is hard work!). So that's one resolution for being 25: find love.

Which brings me to another resolution – find career success. Specifically, find success in the one "career" I have selected for myself - private eye. I wanted to be a police detective, but Dad was totally against it. This is Dad Bruce, of course, as he is much more inclined than Daddy Clark to interfere in my life at any and every opportunity. In fact, I can still remember the day, the summer before my junior year of high school, in which Dad asked whether I would prefer to start in Wayne Enterprises' R &amp;D department right after college or if I would rather work a couple years at the Wayne Foundation first in order to "have a little fun before you jump straight into business." I knew that was my moment, so cool as a cucumber (despite my internal panic), I casually said, "Well, I would really prefer to be a police detective."

I think Dad damn near had a heart attack. His face went really pale and his eyes bugged out. He looked like a bloated corpse, which made Daddy laugh (which totally did NOT help the situation!).

_"Did you put him up to this, Clark?" Dad hissed, outrage seething out of every pore._

_"What? No! Of course not! Dick came to this conclusion all on his own."_

_"He can't be a cop, Clark!"_

_"I believe he actually wants to be a detective, which -"_

_"Don't take his side!"_

_"I'm not taking any side here, I'm merely pointing out-"_

_"Richard!" Dad shouted, which was completely unnecessary as I was only about 20 feet away from his patio chair, lounging in the pool._

_"Dad, look, I just really want to help make Gotham a better place, and I think I could do that as a detective."_

_"What's wrong with making Gotham a better place through the Foundation? Through the business that provides thousands of well-paying jobs?"_

_Geez, someone knew how to lay it on thick!_

_"Nothing! I just would like to be a detective, too, you know?"_

_"No, I do not know! Why do you want to get shot, Richard?"_

_"I don't want to get shot, Dad! Why would I want to get shot? Who wants to get shot?"_

_"Well, Richard, when I hear you say you want to be a police detective, I hear, 'Dad, I want to get shot.'"_

_I gaped at him for a second. "Dad, that's … the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard." I mean, I know my dad dislikes guns, but sheesh!_

_I turned pleading eyes to Daddy, who gave me a wink and then heaved a heavy sigh. "Bruce, I think you might be overreacting just a bit."_

_"How am I overreacting, Clark? Guns are a terrible scourge on our society."_

_"Dad, you act like cops are the only people who get shot!" I interrupted, exasperated. "Poor people and minorities get shot way more than cops! If I wanted to get shot, I would just chuck my trust fund and go live in Crime Alley!"_

_Daddy fixed me with a "you-are-not-helping-your-case,-young-man" look, which promptly shut me up._

_"Bruce, Dick loves helping people and he loves solving puzzles. Law enforcement would play to both of those strengths."_

_"So would the family business."_

_"Dad, I never said I didn't want to take over the company! You just asked what I wanted to do right after college!"_

_"Well, I certainly didn't expect you to willfully put yourself in the line of fire!" Dad fixed Daddy and me with a look that we both knew meant he was about to trot out that story again._

_"I know the two of you have never experienced gun violence, for which I am truly thankful-"_

_"Daaaaaad," I groaned, knowing where this was headed._

_"Bruce, is this really the time and place?" Daddy gently suggested, but Dad plowed on like he hadn't heard our protests._

_"But I have. And it is something I never want the two of you to experience. I never want to experience it again. The pain, the fear, the sheer horror of almost losing everything you love. Richard, my heart can't take that."_

_"Dad, I'm not gonna get shot," I put in weakly, knowing that Dad was about to go full soapbox and anything I said was moot._

_"I remember when I was 8 years old, leaving the movie theatre with your grandparents, Dick. And then, in a dark alley, a mugger came out of nowhere, brandishing a gun. A gun that almost shattered my entire world. He demanded money from your grandfather, and, when your grandfather wasn't fast enough, he ripped his wallet out of his hands and shot your grandfather in the arm so he couldn't prevent his escape. Your grandfather fell. Your grandmother fell. I thought my life had ended. That I was alone in the world. But I was lucky. Someone from the theatre had called 911 and we were whisked to the hospital. Your grandfather was merely nicked, and your grandmother had simply fainted. Dr Thompkins patched them up and life went on as before. But I realized something then, when I was but 8. Do you know what that was?"_

_"What?" I responded, even though I had heard this story a thousand times before and knew exactly what Dad was going to say._

_"I realized that family is the most important thing in the world and that I would do anything to protect my loved ones."_

_"Including crapping on your son's dreams and ruining his one true chance at happiness?" I cheekily asked._

_Dad frowned. "Don't be melodramatic, Richard." He tells me not to be dramatic! I swear._

_"You know I'm always here for you, Dick. You're my number one priority. It's just that sometimes being here for you means thwarting your desires."_

_I knew I was beat. I glanced at Daddy with the frail hope that his resistance had not been crushed, but his expression only told me what I already knew. Dad had busted out the big guns (hahaha) and used THE STORY. The one story that trumped all other stories, because, really how could a pampered teenager ever compete with possibly-dead grandparents and solemn fatherly oaths to protect me at all costs? And he had even followed it up with his "I'm-always-here-for-you" spiel, which was even true! I know a lot of wealthy parents are portrayed as neglectful but my dads were most assuredly not. Dad Bruce would leave board meetings to attend my silly elementary school plays. Daddy Clark once let Aunt Lois interview the President instead of him so he could come to a gymnastics meet. They were awesome dads, so I would just have to work with Dad's gun issues._

_I climbed out of the pool, wrapped myself in a towel, and plunked myself down in Dad Bruce's lap. "Fine, Dad. But can I at least become a gun-free private eye for a few years?"_

And that led us here. After much wrangling, Dad agreed that I could be a part-time, gun-free private eye. Emphasis on the part-time (well, and the gun free. Who am I kidding?). On Mondays and Tuesdays I work at Wayne Enterprises, doing stuff. I have no idea what my position is technically called, if it's called anything, but I'm pretty much an apprentice CEO. I do whatever Dad tells me to do. I've been doing this since I graduated college, and I've learned a ton - chief of which is pray to god Lucius Fox never retires!

On Wednesdays and Thursdays, I work at the Wayne Foundation, which is conveniently located in the same building as my apartment (well, as the Wayne Family penthouse in which I have resided since I graduated college. Dad lived here too when he was post-college and single; he and Daddy even spent a couple years here, but once they had me they high-tailed their asses back to stately Wayne Manor and suburbia as fast as they could). At the Foundation, I help plan events, interview people, decide who gets what grants, and that kind of thing. I also attend an increasing number of social functions as the family's representative because everyone else always seems to be busy. Grandma and Grandpa are the busiest retired people I have ever met, although I suspect golf and quick getaways to go golfing are the culprits.

Finally, on Fridays I am a private eye. I just run the "business" out of my apartment, although I do have a suitably film-noir type desk and chairs in a small room off the foyer that serves as my office. Although I've been doing this about 2.5 years, business is not exactly booming. It's not like I need the money – I would just like to practice my passion. And would it be so much to ask for a case that wasn't directed my way courtesy of my grandmother? I appreciate the support but so many elderly society matrons have had missing lap dogs and jewelry these past couple years that I'm sensing a well-meaning conspiracy.

It would be nice to make it in something my parents haven't directly had a hand in. For instance, most 25-year-olds would consider it an accomplishment to have their own apartment, but mine was given to me. It's a family property that we've had for generations – I didn't do anything to earn it. I think that's also why I plan to conduct my own search for love. Lord knows my parents or grandparents could set me up with any number of nubile debutantes eager to snag a Wayne. But I want someone who likes me for me; I want what Daddy Bruce and Clark have.

But if I'm going to make progress in that regard, I need to snap out of my funk. No one likes a sad sack. Especially an almost-but-not-quite spoiled (or so I like to think) rich boy who has a great life. I mean, sometimes I'm tempted to punch me when I whine.

Time for some positive thinking! As I lay there in bed (today, after all, is my shortest commute and my private eye office doesn't open until 10), starting at the ceiling, I start to smile. Ahh, yes. My greatest triumph thus far.

Cornell.

I graduated _summa cum laude _from Cornell with a double major in business (Dad insisted) and history (it's kinda like detective work, except everyone – not just a murder victim – is dead). But what I'm really proud about is even going to Cornell in the first place. Because that was another negotiation with Dad Bruce. He desperately wanted me to go to Princeton, where he went. I didn't want to go to Princeton, partially because their Fall semester exams are done after winter break (who does that?) but mostly because I wanted to go somewhere Dad hadn't. Or Daddy. There was no way I was going to the University of Kansas. Not that Dad would have permitted it. I was attending an Ivy League institution. End of discussion.

I liked Cornell. Ithaca was beautiful, and it was close, but not too close, to Gotham City. I could spread my wings a little. Daddy Clark thought it was great. Dad Bruce was not entirely convinced.

_"Dick, are you sure? Cornell's not one of the elite Ivies."_

_Daddy and I rolled our eyes. "Dad, are you serious? It's Ivy League! It's elite."_

_"Bruce, Cornell is an excellent choice. Dick hasn't lit up like this at any of the other universities we visited."_

_"I know, but." Dad couldn't put his objection into words._

_"Come on, Dad. I would have thought my eight different Powerpoints extolling the virtues of Cornell would have been enough."_

_Daddy nodded at Dad. "You have to admit, those were very convincing presentations."_

_Dad glumly grunted his agreement. Finally, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Just be careful."_

_"Of course, Dad!"_

_"Don't walk too close to the gorge."_

_Before I could protest with a "Daaaaad," Daddy intervened._

_"Of for heaven's sake, Bruce. He's just going to college, not Mars." Turning to me, Daddy said, "What your father means, Dick, is that we love you very much and are struggling to come to terms with the fact that our baby's going to college."_

_"I…" I didn't know what to say._

_Dad looked momentarily betrayed, like Daddy had revealed a big secret he shouldn't have, but then he sighed. "Yes, your father's right."_

_"Of course I am. Now group hug everyone." We all hugged, and it was awesome (I love hugs)._

_"Now, let's go get some ice cream before I ruin the moment by crying."_

_"Agreed," Dad Bruce said a little too quickly, trying to distract me from his shiny eyes._

My smile broadened. Yeah, that was a great memory. Cornell had been great because I had selected the school myself and felt an increased sense of ownership over my education. My dads had let me go farther away (Princeton, along with being Dad Bruce's alma mater is only about 30 minutes from our house) so that I could feel more grown-up. The trust they placed in me had really meant a lot. Going to Cornell made me happier to return to Gotham City afterwards and start learning the family business in earnest. And although my dads (especially Bruce) are ridiculously overprotective helicopter parents, I know they love me. And hey, maybe you can't be too careful when your son is heir to a multi-billion-dollar fortune and child of a famous journalist. Crap happens, although surprisingly little of it on Bruce Wayne's watch. He must be on to something there.

Hm. Maybe my life's not so bad after all ('cept I really need a girlfriend). Good pep talk, self! Time to feast on Crocky Crunch as my reward.

* * *

I put on one of my best suits, complete with my sapphire blue dress shirt that really "brought out my eyes" and settled down in my private eye office with a cup of tea about 10 AM. (Dad Bruce would never let me have coffee as a child, but Alfred would generously slip me tea.) Per usual, I had no customers eager to partake of my services, so I fired up my computer and pulled up the menu for Paddy Wagon's, the Irish bar and grill near the police station where I was meeting two of my closest friends (Wally Allen-West and Roy Harper) for a birthday lunch. Wally was a forensic scientist for the Gotham City Police Department; as fun as that sounds, Wally has assured me repeatedly that it's not nearly as cool as it looks on the show _CSI_. Roy, two years our senior, is an agent of the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, working at the Gotham City office. I admire Roy for managing to convince his millionaire father to allow him to work such a dangerous job. I can't imagine how my dads would have reacted had I dropped that on them. I think they both would have keeled over from heart attacks!

Anyway, lunch time is at a premium for Wally and Roy, so I need to know what I'm ordering before we get there. So I take a good 20 minutes to leisurely peruse the menu before I bust open the Gotham Gazette-Planet to read my favorite columnists, all of whom are family or very close to it. I read the hard-hitting investigative reporting of Lois Lane (who is basically my aunt since she took Daddy Clark under her wing when he first started at the paper) and the opinion column by Iris West, Wally's mom (although Wally and I went to high school together, we were friends since birth because Daddy Clark and Iris were buddies). Iris is actually the anchor for the Gotham Evening News now, but she keeps her weekly Friday column as a reminder of how she got her start and because she loves writing. And, of course, I read Daddy's work. Like Aunt Lois, Daddy often has several items in the daily paper. Today's it some local news items and an interview with a local councilman. I give it a quick read because my dad wrote it, but the councilman (like so many politicians) is a bore.

I'm idly trolling the internet, trying to pass the time, when my intercom buzzes. _Could it be a client?!_

I head to the foyer and press the talk button. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Wayne," responds Carlos, the head security officer for the building. "There is a Father Todd here to see you. He's interested in your detective services."

I resist the urge to scream hysterically into the phone. My first client not procured by my well-meaning grandma! I can tell Carlos is excited for me, too; his voice has an undertone of joy although he's better at controlling it than I am. With age comes wisdom, I suppose.

"That's great! Send him up, Carlos! Thanks for the good news!"

"Of course! And happy birthday, Mr. Wayne."

"Thank you! And Carlos, you know you can call me Dick, right?" _How many times should I remind him?_

I can definitely hear his smile in his voice when he responds quietly, whispering into the phone, "I know. But I want to keep up appearances when we have guests around."

I laugh. "Whatever you say, Carlos!"

"All right then! One priest coming up!"

I spend the one minute it takes Father Todd to reach my floor pacing nervously in the foyer and shaking my hands. _My first client! MY FIRST CLIENT!_

I was almost too nervous to answer the door when he rang the bell, but I figured it would be extra rude to keep a priest waiting while I got a grip on myself. So, with a deep breath, I opened the door to reveal my very first client (and birthday present, of a sort).

Father Todd.

Although I like to think I kept my cool, I was taken aback when first seeing Father Todd. He was so young! I couldn't be sure of his exact age, as the plain black clothes and clerical collar were throwing me off, but he was definitely in his 20s. Hmmm. I thought priests were all old.

But I put my business face on and welcomed him into my home – slash-office.

"Father Todd," I said, extending my hand to shake his. "Welcome. Please come in. I look forward to working with you."

Father Todd gave me a handshake any businessman would be proud of and stepped inside. "The pleasure is mine. But please, call me Father Jason. Father last-name is so pre-Vatican II."

"Oh … um…" I laughed awkwardly.

Father To – Jason smiled/smirked. "It's a joke. But please, do just call me Father Jason."

"Right. Okay." Awkward pause. "How about we step into my office and discuss how I can help you?"

Once we were both seated in my "gumshoe-style" office, things proceeded more smoothly.

Father Jason was the assistant pastor at St. Michael's Catholic Church, located on the edge of downtown Gotham, near Crime Alley. He said that a precious relic, the finger of St Billfrith, had been stolen from its reliquary in the altar cavity of the church sometime between March 6 and today.

My eyes widened. "Is this _the_ saint Billfrith? As in the purported maker of the original, but now sadly lost, jeweled-cover of the Lindisfarne Gospels?"

Father Jason seemed surprised and impressed. "It is indeed. But how did you know? Our patron is rather obscure."

"I took a lot of medieval history in college."

"I should say so. Anyway, the relic was certainly there on March 6 when Father Robert, that's the pastor, and I said mass in honor of Billfrith's feast day. But today, when I was dusting the altar, I noticed the altar cavity was ajar and the relic missing."

"So you think it happened today?"

"Probably, but I can't say for sure. The reliquary is one of those things that I don't always look at closely. Just part of the backdrop of life." Father Jason sighed deeply.

"That's perfectly understandable, Father. It can be incredibly difficult to notice something is off when we see an object every day. Criminals count on that. It could happen to anyone." I gave Father Jason a reassuring smile.

He gave me a small smile back and leaned back in his chair. "I just don't know what to do. I don't imagine the police will take relic theft all that seriously and I would hate for a needy parishioner or prankster teenager to end up in any serious trouble over this."

"Admirable, sir."

"And since the altar cavity has several other relics, the altar is still consecrated. It's not a huge deal, but the church would like it back."

"Of course. Now you said all the other relics were untouched?" That was significant; it no doubt meant there was something special about St Billfrith.

"Yes. We have relics of two martyrs and a few other saints in there. But the finger of St Billfrith was the only thing missing. And not just from the altar cavity. From the entire church."

There was definitely something going on here with St Billfrith! To leave all the other relics and expensive church ornaments untouched meant this was not a simple theft. _This case was getting good!_

"Interesting," I intoned, nodding my head sagely. "I don't think we're looking at a robbery for monetary gain."

"Right. That's why I thought teenagers playing truth or dare or pulling a prank, and I would prefer to keep them out of the system, which is why I came to you." Father Jason smiled. "I've heard good things."

"You have?!" I squeaked.

"Yes. You located the missing dog of one of my parishioners' employer with utmost speed."

_So maybe grandma had a hand in this after all. Or a finger – hahaha. Too soon?_

"Well, I'm glad to hear it, and I would be honored to take the case."

"Oh thank you." Father Jason looked genuinely relieved. "I have this," he passed me an old photo of Billfrith's mummified finger, "although I'm not sure how much help it will be. It's rather old, taken about 40 years ago when the parish was making an inventory for insurance purposes."

I glanced at the photo and instantly knew it would be no help at all. It was of an index finger over one thousand years old. It just looked like a gnarly withered old finger. And, given that this was Gotham City, there could be hundreds – nay, thousands – of handless, withered fingers in circulation.

But I decided to go with polite (thank you, Daddy Clark) over direct (ahem, Dad Bruce). "Thank you. I'm sure this will be a big help. How about I scan this for my records so you can keep this?"

That suited Father Jason just fine, so I scanned the finger and returned the picture. Once he had his precious photo back, Father Jason asked, "What will your fee be? I would like to pay you myself so I don't waste parish funds."

I waved his question away. "Don't worry about it, Father! It's on the house! I mean, it's not like I need the money. Maybe just put in a good word for me with your parishioners?"

Father Jason chuckled. "If my parishioners know you work for free, that's all the word they'll need."

I paused for a second. Technically, this private eye thing was supposed to be a business, but come on. Dad Bruce was a billionaire. I was going to be a billionaire someday. I could certainly do some free detective work! I loved detective work that I theoretically would do it for free. Why not make theory a reality?

I beamed at my client. "Yes, go ahead and tell them that. Although I'm not much interested in following around philandering spouses." I hoped to avoid that private detective cliché.

Father Jason winked at me. "Well, my parishioners might not have much use for you then."

I was stunned for a second. _Did the priest just make a joke?_

Father Jason smirked. "I should be going then. I have some parishioners to visit at Gotham Memorial Hospital."

"Of course, Father. I will get right on this. I'll probably visit the church this afternoon." I decided to go out on a limb. "No chance you have security cameras, do you?"

Father Jason laughed like I had told the funniest joke in the world. "Our only security system is the eyes of God and the workings of Catholic guilt."

Man, this guy was a cut-up. I bet his homilies were hilarious.


End file.
